


Rear Windows

by RevocablePeril (Harushira_kun)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anyway:, Background Combeferre/Courfeyrac, M/M, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Multi, Nonbinary Jehan, background bahorel/feuilly - Freeform, honestly this just headcanons: the fanfiction, omg ao3tagoftheday noticed me, one day ao3tagoftheday will notice me, tagging all those names took 1000 years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9560405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harushira_kun/pseuds/RevocablePeril
Summary: A series of vignettes; glimpses into the development of Enj and R’s relationship over the course of a few years through the eyes (and ears) of the people around them.





	1. Combeferre

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the wonderful BrooklynBoy (who you should all check out) for beta-ing!!

Enjolras accidentally planned their weekly meeting on what Combeferre feels must be the coldest day of the past decade. A thin dusting of snow coats the ground, his jacket, and the folding chalkboard sign out front of the Café Musain that cheerfully reads “Closed for emergency repairs—open tomorrow as usual!”

Enjolras frowns at the small print on the sign—there was a small fire in the café kitchen, apparently, they’re sorry for the inconvenience (signed Éponine)—while showing no outward sign of feeling the chill, as the rest of them shiver on the sidewalk. There’s more snow than beanie visible on Courf’s head, at this point, and Bossuet looks like he’s literally been frozen to the ground.

Enj turns and announces to that they’ll have to move their meeting somewhere else for the night. Joly immediately suggests Le Corinthe, his regular pub just off campus (not too far, Combeferre hopes), which he says would be happy to have them. Enjolras agrees.

It turns out to be one of Les Amis’ more…eventful meetings, for better or worse.

Le Corinthe is spacious, but pretty busy for a Tuesday night when students are nearing finals season. The six of them—himself, Enj, Courf, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel—manage to claim a couple tables in the back corner and push them together, not unlike their setup at the Musain. The two buildings even look somewhat similar. Enj starts the meeting and Combeferre doesn’t even register that they’ve changed locales.

What is different from their meetings at the Musain, however, is the flow of alcohol. It begins when Enj announces their recent minor victory—as per their persistent requests, the school will upgrade their on-campus mental health hotline to 24-hour support—and Bahorel declares this a cause for celebration. He buys everyone a round. Later, the bar waitress (who Bossuet introduces as Musichetta, with a wink and a smile) brings them one on the house “since Joly finally brought us those friends he’s always talking about!”

Loosened by the drink, Enjolras becomes even more impassioned than usual. Before long his voice is loud enough to carry across the rest of the pub. Many of the patrons look on in interest. When they even applaud his ideas, Enjolras starts talking to the pub at large, Courf cutting in every few minutes with his two cents or comic relief.

Combeferre is digging the ABC leaflets out of Courf’s bag—at this rate it looks like they’ll be recruiting more than a few new students to their little group tonight—and Enj has just delivered Les Amis’ general mission statement standing on his chair, when a voice yells back at them from across the room.

“And I suppose you think you’ll change the whole world like this? One pub at a time?”

Combeferre—along with everyone else in the pub—turns around to look. The voice belongs to a dishevelled-looking man at the bar, a beer in his hand and a smirk on his face. Enjolras visibly bristles.

“If that’s the best way to do it,” he says, “Yes.”

“You’re serious?” the man replies. 

Enj sets his jaw. “I’m dead serious.” He turns away from him.

The man throws his head back and laughs. “Well, then.” He raises his beer towards Enjolras, every movement somehow rife with sarcasm. “Here’s to you, drunk revolutionary.”

“No one asked you, Grantaire!” Joly yells back at the man, before Enj can grace that with a reply.

“No one ever does,” Grantaire responds, “But it’s a shame, I always make such amazing contributions.” He turns away, flagging down Musichetta. The other patrons laugh, and the tension is defused. 

Later, after Enjolras calls their meeting to a close, after Combeferre runs out of leaflets to hand out, after last call happens and most of the patrons leave, Courf and Bahorel approach the man from earlier—Grantaire—and Enj ends up deep in conversation with a different man who introduces himself as Feuilly. Combeferre is left to lounge in his seat, shifting his attention between the interactions.

Feuilly, who works as a janitor at the school as well as two other jobs, admits to being deeply moved by Enjolras’ fixation on meaningful change (as the rest of the Amis were; gravitating to Enjolras like planets to the sun) and he offers to help them develop connections. Anything to spread their messages further afield.

Excitement is written all over Enjolras’ face, hands waving as he discusses possibilities, awareness, action. Feuilly nods eagerly and Combeferre feels a swell of pride for his friend.

He shifts his gaze to Courf, Bahorel, and Grantaire, who is still sitting at the bar even though the other patrons have long since gone.

Bahorel slaps him amicably on the back, the three of them sharing a laugh before Courf notices Combeferre watching, beams and takes the seat beside him. Grantaire mutters something to Bahorel that makes him go away to eavesdrop on Enj and Feuilly.

“What’s his story?” Combeferre asks Courf, nudging him with his knee and gesturing in Grantaire’s general direction.

Courf shrugs. “Just another student. Art, seems like. Funny guy, if you can get past about fifty layers of sarcasm.”

“What, funnier than you?” Combeferre teases.

“No one’s funnier than me.” Courf grins at him. “Weird enough though, he asked about the meetings.”

“And?” 

“I got his number. What? Don’t look at me like that, I’m just going to let him know when the next meeting is!”

Combeferre lets his eyebrows fall and turns back to look. Grantaire has one of their leaflets in front of him on the table, but his eyes are elsewhere. He follows Grantaire’s line of sight.

He seems to be watching Enjolras, a strange look about him—lips pressed together, hand clenched against the counter, looking out of the corner of his eye. His gaze flicks from the ceiling, to Enj, and back again, as if doesn’t really want to look but he’s too curious to avert his eyes.

It’s an unsettlingly familiar motion, but Combeferre can’t place it.

That is, until he hears a loud _thud_ at the other end of the room and turns to see Bossuet face down on the ground, a chair half on top of him, Musichetta doubled over with laughter.

Joly watches them both, a fond smile on his face as he looks at each of the two in turn, then back to the ground.

Combeferre’s gaze shifts back to Grantaire, who is watching Enjolras with the same uncertain interest with which Joly is watching Bossuet and Musichetta. 

Realization dawns.

He’s shaken out of his stupor when Grantaire scrapes his chair across the wooden floor and stands. He shrugs on a battered leather jacket, and is out the door of the Corinthe without a second glance behind him.

Combeferre knows it’s not the last they’ll see of him.


	2. Bahorel

Literally no one except Enjolras is surprised when Grantaire ends up becoming a regular fixture at ABC meetings. Bahorel knows him already, more or less—he’s seen Grantaire all over the damn city, and they shoot the shit whenever they’re sat next to each other at a bar, waiting for drinks. They’ve even sparred from time to time, what with the mutual boxing hobby.

Since Bahorel is used to Grantaire sitting in his peripheral vision at any given moment, he doesn’t really notice him at the Musain at first. But once Grantaire starts prodding at Enjolras _every damn meeting_ his presence there is as unignorable as, say, Courfeyrac’s.

Somehow, Bahorel can’t get angry about it, since R turns out to be a pretty great guy. He offers to do some graphic design shit for their new flyers when Ferre proves to be hopeless at it. He hauls everyone’s drunk arses home when they get too excited at the Corinthe, even though he’s pissed to hell and back himself. He even manages to convince Bossuet and Chetta to suck it up and ask Joly out, to the relief of all.

Bahorel would give him the same advice about Enjolras—Bahorel is not the most discerning person by any means, but R’s prodding can only go so far without him noticing his hopeless crush on their leader—but for the fact that anyone with eyes can tell that Enj fucking _hates_ Grantaire.

On good days, Enjolras just acts like Grantaire isn’t there. He’s always scanning the room, being sure to make eye contact with each of them, but he just skips over R entirely. He delegates tasks to everyone but him. R being new isn’t even an excuse—he and Feuilly started showing up around the same time, but Feuilly is already given just as many tasks as Ferre.

And the bad days, which annoyingly there are more of, feature arguments which escalate until Enjolras is insulting Grantaire himself rather than his views. Enjolras disapproves of his drinking, his attitude, his philosophy, and makes sure he knows all of it. The worst part is, R sits there and just takes it, until one of the others has to step in and get Enjolras back on track.

And as much as Enjolras commands his respect, Bahorel feels his fist curling and knuckles turning white one night for the things he says to R’s face. Bahorel would never hurt Enjolras—who could bear to—but he’s definitely wondering if just fucking decking him right there would stop him attacking R for good. 

Luckily, Feuilly notices his clenched fist and brings him outside to cool off before he does anything stupid. He tries to go back inside later but the head barista, Éponine, stops him at the door and hints that it’s probably a bad idea. She’s right, as usual. For someone who doesn’t even witness the meetings in progress, she knows them all so well it’s a bit scary.

That same night, Bahorel ends up at the same bar as R, which is weird in itself since the bar in question is on the other side of the city.

Even weirder is...well...how sober he is, considering how Enjolras basically called him a worthless piece of shit less than two hours ago. Bahorel takes the seat beside him. R doesn’t notice.

“So,” he starts. “I was thinking of punching Enjolras. Earlier.”

R looks up at him in surprise, bottle halfway to his mouth. Then he laughs. “And why would you want to damage that pretty face?”

“For the crap he spouts about you, R—”

“Crap? Everything he says is true. I don’t do anything useful around there.”

“Fuck, drop the bullshit. I ain’t got all night, just tell me why you do it if you like him so much.”

R winces at that. Looks at his knees. “That obvious?”

“No,” he says. “But I know you.”

R is quiet for a long time, then: “I’ll take what I can get, y’know? Even if it means being shat on.”

There’s not much Bahorel can say to that. He knows.

“God,” Bahorel starts instead, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This must be one of those opposites-attract things. I have no idea what you, of all people, see in someone like him.”

Grantaire sips from his bottle, thinking.

“Equality can never be achieved,” he says slowly. “Not even close. Too many sacks of shit alive in the world”—he holds up his hand when Bahorel opens his mouth to protest— “but if it can be, even in just one city, and that’s still a _gigantic_ ‘if’, Enjolras is the one who’ll make it happen.”

Bahorel lets it sink in for a minute. Since Grantaire has just summarized in a sentence why every single one of them follows Enjolras in the first place. 

“R, just tell him that.”

“He wouldn’t believe me.”

R finishes the rest of the bottle in a long swallow and immediately asks for another. Bahorel drops the subject.

The next week, he gets to the Musain early, in hopes of snagging the seat beside the outlet to charge his dying phone. But he stops at the bottom of the stairs when he hears voices drifting down.

“—sorry about what happened last week. I lost my temper and said things I didn’t mean to you.”

It’s Enjolras. There’s no reply, so he speaks again.

“Grantaire?”

“I—you—it’s fine. Don’t apologize, I had it coming.” It’s R. He laughs, but it’s strained. “I’m sorry too.”

Someone taps Bahorel on the shoulder. He turns around, sees Bossuet about to say something. Bahorel clamps a hand over Bossuet’s mouth and holds up a finger.

“You didn’t deserve it,” Enjolras says. Footsteps. “I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but…”

“It’s okay,” finishes R, and Bahorel has to strain his ears to hear him. “Trying is all any of us can do, I guess.”

“So there is something we agree on.”

“Might possibly be the only thing, but I have hopes.” 

Enjolras actually laughs.

“What’s going on?” says Joly, startling Bahorel. The moment is broken. Joly puts his arm around Bossuet and eyes Bahorel’s hand curiously. He lets it drop.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he replies, and takes the stairs two at a time. R is already sat in his usual spot, and he grins at Bahorel when he enters. Enjolras is awkwardly scratching the back of his head on the other side of the room.

Bahorel’s a hundred percent sure Courfeyrac or someone put Enj up to the apology, but hey, small steps. Grantaire will take what he can get, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's chapter two. :) Updates every Thursday at sporadic times to compliment my sporadic sleep schedule.
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it! Either by commenting here or on my Tumblr @grantairelibere (where I am more often). Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Jehan

The first time Jean ends up on the upper floor of the Musain (quite by accident, they’re only looking for the bathroom) the first thing they see is two people glaring at each other from opposite ends of the floor, while the rest of the room’s occupants sit back in silence. The tension is so palpable between them (how fitting that one should be wearing red and the other green, like opposing ends of a spectrum) that Jean is afraid if they exhale too loud, the air might snap.

The others don’t seem fazed by this in the slightest, either—they’re rolling their eyes or pulling their phones out of their pockets. This, Jean decides immediately, is a strange group. They turn quickly around and flee for the safety of the first floor after that. 

(Éponine, wiping down the tables when they descend, sees the slightly terrified expression on Jean’s face and nods her head in agreement.)

The second time Jean ends up on the upper floor of the Musain, months later, is not so bad (being escorted by Bahorel and his massive presence is enough to put anyone at ease. Also, now Jean knows what they’re all gathered here for). The tense pair seems to have sorted out whatever issue had been plaguing them so long ago. A minor disagreement, Jean thinks.

(They’re wrong).

They’re introduced to each of Les Amis in turn. Jean learns the red one is Enjolras and the other is Grantaire—

“Just R,” Grantaire says with a clap on Jean’s shoulder.

Jean introduces themself.

”Prouv _aire_? We can’t both be R. I need a different name for you.”

“Just Jean,” says Jean, but they stutter, and it comes out wrong, with a strange inflection.

“Well, Jehan it is then,” says R.

(It sticks. Jehan loves it).

Jehan is quickly and warmly folded into Les Amis, and it takes less than a month to fall in love with each one of them. They love Joly’s concern, Bossuet’s cheer, Musichetta’s wit. They love Bahorel’s strength and Feuilly’s dedication. They love the way Courfeyrac brings the group to be both focused and relaxed, and the way Combeferre says so little but means so much. They love Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s unflinching beliefs: Enjolras, in a greater tomorrow; Grantaire, in Enjolras.

Jehan is curious about those two. Now that Jehan’s allowed a glimpse into their world, they can see that the tension between Enjolras and Grantaire is never gone, only on standby.

The pattern goes like this: R challenges Enjolras, with the kind of overconfident swagger that only comes when one is most of the way to drunk. Enjolras, a determined set to his jaw, gives in to the taunt. They debate, argue, then come to a moot point, staring in silence while searching for the right words. That’s how the tension is built—but always, they resist and move around it like a couple of fish swimming against a current; with practiced ease.

(Jehan wonders how long they’ve had to be like this for it to happen).

But later, when Enjolras is turned away, Jehan watches Grantaire gaze at him transfixed, light dancing in his eyes as if Enjolras is fire itself. Likewise, when Grantaire falls asleep at his table, Enjolras stares like Grantaire is the universe’s most intriguing puzzle, and he’s determined to solve it.

(Everyone else sees it too, if Courfeyrac’s meaningfully raised eyebrows are anything to go by).

Finals roll around, and Les Amis don’t meet for the better part of a month. Jehan’s world feels oddly lacking without them, despite the spring colours and sounds of new life blooming all around. They see Feuilly sometimes, when Jehan leaves their later class and Feuilly has already started his rounds, and takes a small comfort in his presence. Combeferre also—the two of them share an exhausted exchange of nods at the library doors as one of them enters and one leaves.

The library is where Jehan finds themselves in the early afternoon the day they finish exams, browsing the university’s collection of sheet music (Debussy’s _Reverie_ is already tucked under their arm; Jehan looks forward to learning it now that an abundance of free time has presented itself). They’re reaching for _Symphonie fantastique_ when a whisper cuts through the silence.

“I didn’t know you read music,” it says. The whisper belongs to Enjolras (who else could make so quiet a voice still slice the air?) but it isn’t directed at them, rather, someone unseen a few shelves down.

A low laugh. “There’s a great deal of things you don’t know about me,” is the whispered response, and it has to be R. Even if Jehan can’t make out the voice, they recognizes the response. “What are you doing here, this isn’t even your d—Jesus Christ, when was the last time you slept?”

Jehan peers over the tops of the scores at where the sound is coming from. They see Grantaire’s mess of hair; his eyes through the shelves, peering up at the space where Enjolras must be standing, out of Jehan’s sight. R is frowning, concerned.

“I’m looking for Jehan,” Enjolras says, rather than answer. “I have a question and Ferre said they were here.”

“No,” R whispers firmly. “Jehan finished their exams today”—Jehan hides a smile behind the shelf, touched that R remembers—“and so did you. So. _You_ are not asking anyone anything until you put your head on a pillow for at least five hours. Don’t you have a meeting to run later? God, Enjolras, you look like you were hit by a truck.”

Enjolras sways into R’s personal space, and Jehan’s narrow field of vision. It seems R’s description is very apt—Enjolras can’t even seem to open his eyes past halfway. “I had to study,” Enjolras says simply. “And it’s an important question.”

“Yeah, no, not a good enough reason,” R says, and he grabs Enjolras by the arm and leads him towards the end of the row of shelves. Jehan loses sight of them. “Sleep.”

“But Jehan—” 

“Don’t you know how to use a phone? Call them. Or join the rest of us in the 21st century, and send a text.” A pause. “I’m telling Courf you’re not taking care of yourself.”

“You _wouldn’t_.” It’s more of a hiss than a whisper.

“If you’re not asleep within an hour, I sure as hell will.”

No one says anything for a while. The library seems quieter than before, the silence only broken by Jehan’s breathing and someone’s pencil scratching across a page; a student in the far corner of the room.

“My place is too far.”

“I know.” There’s a sound, a jangling of keys. “Here. Go to mine.”

Jehan can almost hear Enjolras’ jaw working, searching for an excuse.

Grantaire sighs. “Bed. Go. Now. Or I will tell Courfeyrac. Just...take care of yourself, yeah?” 

“Fine,” Enjolras sighs, then, quieter: “Um. Thanks, Grantaire.”

The doors to the music section squeak open as Enjolras leaves.

“Jehan. I know you’re there,” Grantaire whispers.

They flinch; sees Grantaire’s stare turned on them through the shelves. Jehan smiles sheepishly.

(Still, R recommends some flute scores, and Jehan returns the favour for the piano. R wears a relaxed grin, and Jehan is still smiling by the time they get to the meeting that day).


	4. Éponine

Seeing Grantaire waiting at the doors to the Musain first thing in the bloody morning has become somewhat of a norm for Ep, now that summer’s come round and R’s school-less schedule has had the chance to become truly and royally fucked. The café opens at 6:30 in the morning on Wednesdays, and she turns the key in the lock at 6:00 fully knowing that he hasn’t gone to sleep and won’t do for a couple of hours yet.

She gets the coffee brewing as fast as the machine will let her and shoves two of yesterday’s croissants in a toaster. She examines Grantaire’s face (tired), his posture (slumped on the breakfast bar), and level of drunk (honestly, who knows).

“What’s on the menu today?” she asks as she moves around the room, flipping light switches and pulling chairs off tables. “Self-deprecation, pining, or both?” 

Grantaire scrubs his face with his hand. “What would you hypothetically do if I said it was neither?”

“Say you were lying,” she deadpans. Even when Grantaire wants to talk about anything else—an artist he met in Montmartre, a book she told him to read, the last episode of Game of Thrones, whatever—Ep can always see something bubbling under the surface, no matter how good Grantaire thinks he is at hiding it. 

“Yeah, I’m lying. Ep, I’m _so stupid_.”

“Only a little, but go on.”

“You know Chetta, right? Musichetta, Corinthe girl, taller than both her boyfriends combined?”

Ep nods.

“She’s sort of...filming a thing on the Amis, out of boredom I think, and decided she needed a red backdrop for Enjolras—who can blame her, really—and you know my studio room, yeah? So I said they could use it.”

The toaster pops the croissants out just as Ep finishes putting the third and final spoon of sugar into Grantaire’s coffee. She slides both over to him and he shoves half a croissant in his mouth.

“What’s the problem? Hasn’t Enjolras stayed over at yours before?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and swallows. “Yeah, but back then I wasn’t there at the same time so it was fine. Anyway, that’s not even half of it. So Chetta gets her footage, you know: magic hour, Enjolras in black against the red wall, fading sunlight on blond hair like fucking Apollo, all that good stuff—don’t laugh—and then she leaves, and he’s also about to leave to get food, so I make some _stupid_ joke about having way too much food in the fridge for just me, which I actually do. Drunk grocery shopping. And Enjolras puts his foot down.”

“Oh no.”

“He _insisted_ that ‘he couldn’t let food go bad when so many people in this city barely eat at all’ as if it would make all the difference in the world because he’s fucking _Enjolras_ , and that’s literally what he thinks about all the time, fuck. So he ended up cooking in my kitchen for three days straight.”

Grantaire pauses to take a huge gulp of his coffee. Ep checks the time on her phone. They’re open in a couple minutes. She’s tempted to lock up a bit longer to let Grantaire finish his story.

“There was some movie watching, and going to the roof, and fruit fucking salad, and at one point I texted Jehan for help and they just brought over even more almost-bad food because they clearly have ulterior motives. And you know what the worst part is? Enjolras was over three days in a row, staying at my flat, being more or less normal. Hanging out. And we didn’t argue even once. Oh my god, Ep, tell me you have wine under that counter. I can’t deal with this.”

She studies him. She’s known about his thing for Enjolras since the day he started showing up to the meetings—when someone like him joins a dedicated activist group there has to be something going on between the lines—but she thought it was a just that, a thing, like a crush got out of hand. Now, though, she sees the wrecked expression on his face. She thinks about the fact that the sun’s just come up and the first thing Grantaire had to do was tell someone about Enjolras. She thinks about the fact that Grantaire never misses a single meeting despite his work. She thinks about the fact that Grantaire’s random hookups are _never_ blond, tall, or serious.

She wants to punch herself in the face for not recognizing love the moment she saw it.

She squeezes his hand. “Drink your coffee,” she says, gentler. “Try not to cry.” 

Grantaire laughs, and for now that has to be good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite chapters to write because ranting Grantaire is my weakness sorry  
> Anyway. Thanks to everyone who's been reading, seeing your comments really does make my day (and week, if I'm being totally honest)!
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it! Either by commenting here or on my Tumblr @grantairelibere (where I am more often). Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Javert

On February 13th, at 0230 hours, he makes his first arrest of the day. 

It’s those damn kids from the university again. At least one of them has been in holding on exactly five separate occasions over the course of the two years he’s been stationed at the Commissariat, yet so far they’ve managed to evade doing time.

Justice always prevails in the end, though—this time, he has them.

They’ve vandalised the front of a government building. Three of the members of the group were arrested on site, including, for the first time, their leader. The others got away, unfortunately with the one who had covered the walls in paint. The group had plotted to wear similar hats, making the most guilty culprit hard to spot both at the scene and on the security footage.

He tries to take the names of the present ones, but they refuse to tell him. No matter; he knows them well enough. There’s Enjolras, the head of the group, protester of seemingly everything, some kind of aspiring martyr. Then there’s Jean Prouvaire, the one who cries when one of the other kids gets hurt, but in the face of Javert’s authority stands tall and rebellious. Finally, there’s L’Aigle, or Lesgle, or something, who has been in holding and subsequently bailed out all five times and Javert still has yet to witness wrongdoing on his part. Though he must play an important role, since he’s always there.

Presently, Javert is on the phone with Monsieur Madeleine explaining the situation. Madeleine, of course, wants to know all the unimportant details—what manner of vandalism was it, what was the reason for doing what they did—is it not bad enough that the law was broken and property was damaged? Javert tells him the kids will say nothing, and before he can protest, Madeleine says he is on his way there. 

Javert peers through the window into the holding cell. Prouvaire is whistling. Lesgle/L’Aigle is staring at the opposite wall and shaking his leg. Enjolras is pacing the small area. He does an about turn and stares straight at Javert through the glass. 

“Unless you tell me who the vandal was,” Javert says, choosing his words carefully; keeping his tone patient and even. “All of you will do time for a crime like this.”

“I won’t tell you anything,” Enjolras says, equally calm. “You wouldn’t be able to find them anyway.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” 

“You don’t know what they look like.”

Javert scoffs. “As if you really think I don’t know each of your faces by now.”

Enjolras resumes his pacing and ignores him, so Javert switches tactics.

“What kind of believer of a misguided cause allows his friends to do time, rather than turn himself in?” Javert challenges, coming closer to the glass.

The taunt works. Enjolras tenses and turns. “One who isn’t a believer in it,” he replies. “One who was only there because I asked him to be. He shouldn’t have been involved at all.”

“Oh Enjolras, you give yourself too much credit,” a voice sighs behind him, and Javert whirls around. 

There’s a man in his chair with his boots on Javert’s desk, dripping melted snow onto important records. For a moment, Javert is too stunned to speak or even move. He doesn’t recognize him. The man stands.

“How did you get in?” Javert manages. 

“I’m the one you’re looking for, so let them go,” he says, rather than answering. He points at the holding cell behind Javert.

Javert looks back and sees the three in the cell are just as confused as he is.

The man offers his wrists to Javert. “Just so it’s easy for you. Name’s Grantaire. Not in your records. Yet.” 

“And how am I to know that you’re the real culprit? You’re not even one of them.”

The man—Grantaire—laughs. “I’m not? Look, Enjolras, the man agrees with you. But it’s me, and I can tell you why.”

“You can give your reason for damaging of property to the court,” Javert says. “I don’t care to hear it.”

At that moment, Monsieur Madeleine swings the door open. He takes a look at the scene—three students in a cell, another offering himself for arrest—and turns his confused eyes on Javert. 

“Who are you?” Madeleine asks Grantaire. 

“I’m _guilty_ ,” he drawls. Then quickly becomes serious. “These three didn’t do anything. It was even my idea.”

“It wasn’t,” Enjolras says, loud enough for even Madeleine to hear through the glass. 

“Really, after I go through all this trouble?” Grantaire says.

Madeleine looks between the two boys. He settles on Grantaire and gives him a gentle smile. “Come with me.”

Grantaire shrugs and stumbles after him. Javert turns back to Enjolras. 

“Not that I take you at your word,” he says, “but is he or is he not one of you?”

Enjolras looks at both of the others before replying. “He is.”

“Then why have I never seen him before?” 

Oddly, Enjolras’ lips quirk up. Javert can’t decipher whether it’s genuine or mocking. “Because he doesn’t get involved. Let him go.”

In over twenty years of service in Paris alone, Javert has never encountered a pair of people so keen on being imprisoned instead of the other. He says nothing, but returns to his desk and starts wiping the melted mess off the surface. He neatens the records as best he can. Distantly, he can hear a muffled voice. 

Javert often wonders what it is that drives these students to do what they do. It’s not purely an act of senseless rebellion, nor is it purely a cry for attention. He understands there are changes that need to be made in the government, in the city as a whole. And it is hard to deny that the students’ activism, however illegal, has been effective. But—and on this he firmly stands—breaking the law is not the way to go about getting one’s voice heard or create progress in society. Javert shakes his head and shoves the train of thought out of his mind.

He hears a door swings open down the hall, a few minutes later. 

“—and if someone who works in that damn building actually _listened to us_ , we wouldn’t resort to such drastic measures in the first place. See? This is a win-win situation. We all benefit from it, and you get your paint-free government property. Foolproof. Even to me.” It’s Grantaire.

Javert twitches. Monsieur Madeleine steps in. “Let these three go,” he says, indicating the holding cell.

From the corner of his eye he sees Enjolras frown and L’Aigle stand up. Grantaire flops back against the station wall, satisfaction written all over his face. Javert feels his blood begin to boil.

“Monsieur—” Javert starts.

“Their cause is a real one for concern,” Madeleine interrupts. “He’s shown me. They have the right to be angry.”

Over his shoulder, Grantaire winks at the holding cell and Enjolras stares back in disbelief. Prouvaire gives Grantaire an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“That is not to say they should be free from consequences,” continues Madeleine, and he looks at each of the other three in turn. “Since the responsibility is theirs. But not all theirs. They are students. Let them go home.” 

Javert stiffens. Madeleine is always far too soft on younger ones and first-time offenders, and it is out of Javert’s power to challenge the man’s authority.

“Very well,” he says dryly, pulling the keys from his belt loop.

“Thank you,” Madeleine replies, as if Javert had had a choice in the matter.

Grantaire enters the holding cell of his own accord, as the other three leave. Prouvaire is triumphant, L’Aigle/Lesgles/whatever relieved. 

Enjolras stops and turns, gives Grantaire an indecipherable look. “You didn’t have to.” 

Grantaire snorts. “What, and allow you to do time for me? Especially when you might have an important and possibly not-pointless thing arranged.” He nods over Enjolras’ shoulder at Monsieur Madeleine. 

“I can’t promise you anything,” Madeleine says, addressing Enjolras. “But I may have connections to those who can meet with you to discuss your...cause.”

Enjolras’ posture suddenly grows straighter. He looks back and forth between Grantaire and Madeleine.

“Thank you,” he says to Madeleine.

Madeleine is stern but kind, as always, and Grantaire looks a bit too smug for Javert’s liking. He has had enough. He slams and locks the cell door, loud enough to get everyone moving. Grantaire lays back on the bench inside and closes his eyes. Madeleine leads the other three outside. Enjolras doesn’t look back again.

In the end, Grantaire doesn’t even end up doing time. He does receive a hefty fine, one far too high for any student to afford, but it’s paid on his behalf by an undisclosed party. Javert sees the glint in Madeleine’s eyes the next week and doesn’t need to guess to know who it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sure how I feel about this chapter if I'm being honest, but no amount of editing was making it any better sadly. (Also, I deliberately made things vague since I don't know the first thing about laws in France oops)   
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the off-beat perspective! I know I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading and commenting!


	6. Bossuet

Something weird is happening between Enjolras and Grantaire, and it _definitely_ started sometime after they painted the government place.

Needless to say, R had done Enjolras a huge favour. That’s what Bossuet chalked it up to when there was no conflict between them the next meeting, and Enj even agreed with one of R’s crasser statements. (Mind you, R was just as surprised as everyone else.)

But now it’s been a full _four months_ since then and surely even Enjolras has a limit to his gratefulness. As the spring turned into summer the upper floor of the cafe got unbearably hot and patience ran thin, but the peace treaty continued. And continues. It’s like Enj is making a conscious effort to not openly insult and even _smile_ at R, and R is keeping the sarcasm at bay. But why?

Chetta calls the change ‘character development’ and Joly gets fancy and calls it a _paradigm shift_. Bossuet, for his part, calls it Just Plain Weird.

He feels no need to confront R about it until, after yet another wrongful arrest, Enj _pays Bossuet’s fine for him_.

It’s an...interesting situation that goes like this:

It’s Bahorel’s birthday, and in celebration a bunch of them get drunk and dick around the mostly-empty school grounds until the wee hours of the morning. It’s all good and fine until Bahorel (who’s definitely further gone than the rest of them) declares this His Time, heads for the doors of the law school building, flips the bird (while shouting the verbal equivalent of the gesture) and takes a piss on the front steps—just as a security guy walks past and sees Bossuet trying to get him to quiet down.

Long story short, they get chased down the street and Bossuet is the slowest runner of the bunch. He gets separated from Joly at some point and it’s ultimately _him_ who gets brought into the station at 4 am. Again. He curses his luck, Bahorel’s (completely understandable) hatred of school, and also the random 12-year-old kid who had joined them at some point during the evening. Who could run faster than him, damn his little 12-year-old legs.

Anyway, the way he understands it, Enj finds out what happened through R, who explains something about Bahorel feeling bad but also not having any money to pay the fine at the moment since he used up his parents’ allowance for this semester (and next) but he _refuses_ to let Bossuet pay since Bossuet is the one who ended up in holding. Courf and Ferre are out of the question-- Courf would have to go to his parents (“NO,” they all screamed) and Ferre would give them his _disappointed_ look and there is absolutely nothing in the world worse than the Ferre glare. Also, no one’s supposed to tell Feuilly, for some ‘Bahorel said so’-related reason. So, the burden was left to Joly and Chetta, who were going to break into their Bossuet Has Done It Again piggy bank which _apparently_ they have started filling for situations exactly like this, but Enj got wind of it first. R must make a good case, because Enj just. Pays the whole damn 200 euros.

He never does this. Les Amis get into tons of shit on their own but Enj never gets involved unless it’s actually for a reasonable cause. Something about “learning to choose your battles”, as he’s told them. But then he thinks about what he’s dubbed the Pre-Valentine Paint Incident and how Enjolras was so ready to do time on R’s behalf. Yeah, it was Enj’s idea in the first place but every one of them understands the risks in being involved and Enjolras knows that. 

Bossuet asks R about it one night at the Corinthe, because while the whole Bahorel’s-birthday thing wasn’t a big deal, any change in Enjolras’ habits is a Big Deal. _What’s your secret?_ Bossuet wants to ask Grantaire. So he does.

“Secret? No secrets here. I’m an open book.” He flings his arms out wide to illustrate the point. He almost punches Chetta, who’s working tonight, in the process.

“But like, what could you possibly say do make him do that?”

“Almighty Apollo,” R moons dramatically, “let the rays of your sun shine and cast our mortal Bossuet out of darkness.”

Joly roars with laughter and R grins at him.

“Nah, but seriously. I just asked if he could help. He said ’if that’s what you want me to do, I’ll do it.’”

Joly, who had just taken a gulp, chokes on it. “He _what_?”

Grantaire shrugs. “I explained the whole thing over the phone, but he asked me to meet him for coffee to explain it in person. I did, and, well, yeah,” R says, while Bossuet slaps his choking boyfriend on the back, “he just said he’d do it.”

Bossuet stares at him. Really _looks_. “For someone who notices things, you don’t notice things,” he blurts.

Grantaire laughs at that. “Tell me what I’m missing, then.”

“Enjolras,” he says. “He’s gone out of his way for you. You know, a lot.”

Joly shoots him a look across the table and Grantaire stops laughing. Joly pulls out his phone and starts tapping wildly. 

Grantaire puts the bottle on the table a little more forcefully than he should. “Not any more than he would do for you. Or Ferre. Or anyone.”

Bossuet’s phone buzzes in his lap. He reads the text.

 **Joly (@ 23:13)**  
_dOn’t do it love I tried it already he thinks enj is doing it out of pity and he’s hopeless DON’T GET HIM STARTED_

Of course Grantaire thinks that. Of course he would. He’s 110% sure that the only person who doesn’t think Grantaire is the greatest is Grantaire himself. 

Bossuet makes eye contact with Joly and they silently agree to not push it further. Chetta comes round with more beers, and the subject is dropped.

Later, though, Bossuet pulls Joly aside, the laughing, burning question _“how bad do you think Enj has it for R?”_ on the tip of his tongue. But a less-than-sober Joly has other ideas—grinning, swaying on his feet, he winds his arms around Bossuet’s neck, and kisses the question away.

After that, he’s helping Chetta put the chairs on the tables at the end of the night, when the question burns again. _“Does this count as Enjolras flirting?”_ he’s ready to ask her, but he only has the chance to open his mouth before her lips are on his, and he forgets _again_.

Really, it’s just his luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, my J/B/M bias certainly slid in here a bit. Anyway, the ball is REALLY rolling now. I hope you enjoyed this and enjoy the coming chapters, too! 
> 
> Thanks again so so much for reading and commenting.


	7. Musichetta

Partway through the summer, Chetta starts going to the ABC meetings. At first it’s just a temporary excuse to spend some more time with her boyfriends since she keeps getting shifts at the Corinthe whenever they have free time, but since she’s filming them all the time anyway she decides to stick around and shoot some more footage of the Amis in action, at their most passionate.

It’s beautiful.

In August she puts together the completed short doc and posts it on the internet, calling it _Abaissé_. Bossuet and Joly watch it first, of course. Bossuet links it to Jehan who sends it to Grantaire. R loves it—probably something to do with the amount of Inspiring Enjolras Moments she captured—and shows it to what feels like every bloody student in Paris. 

Long story short, the Amis draw a lot of attention. Other groups around the city, high schools, universities, see their message and spread it further afield. Combeferre suddenly has his work cut out for him printing leaflets. The Musain gets a second phone and Ep gives the old one to Courf so he can field the sudden influx of non-café-related calls. Both Ep and Azelma have to work a shift every day, they’re so busy. Before the start of semester, the place becomes so full on meeting nights that people spill out onto the sidewalk below. Enjolras is thrilled. 

So is Chetta—she’s been commissioned for another documentary by a similar group at a different uni. She makes a note to thank Grantaire for his very existence, not to mention his connections to everyone everywhere. Though—when she tells Enjolras that Grantaire was the one who networked the doc to so many people, she sees the look on Enj’s face, the stare in Grantaire’s direction, and figures Grantaire will get all the thanks he needs soon enough.

Chetta has long been considered an official part of the group, but after _Abaissé_ she gets so close to the rest of them that when school starts up again for everyone, they give her keys to their flats. 

All except Courfeyrac. Courf would have, normally—but hilariously he screwed up his residence application and as a result has ended up with a completely random roommate who—in Courf’s words—‘doesn’t get out much’.

“He put up a poster of Napoleon in our bedroom,” Courf complains into the crook of Combeferre’s neck one night, when the meeting has finished and the other students are trickling out. “Who the flying fuck even owns a poster of Napoleon? _And hangs it on their bedroom wall_?”

This is the item at the end of Courf’s long list of ‘unexplainable things that my new roommate does’ and the rest of the Amis are already pissing with laughter, but Ferre’s lips are pressed together so tight they’re going white, trying to keep a straight face for Courf’s sake. He rubs his shoulder.

“Could be worse,” Ferre says. “You could be rooming with Bossuet—no offense.” He yells that last in their direction, where Chetta has her arm around Bossuet’s shoulder. She snorts, thinking of fuses that only ever seem to blow when Bossuet is home alone.

“I wouldn’t want to room with me either, none taken,” Bossuet replies.

Courf groans louder. “See the thing is, if you ignore the weird parts, Marius is actually a very nice guy. But that’s not the point, the point is that I was supposed to room with you,” he whines to Ferre. “How are we supposed to make cookies and then have flour fights in the kitchen? Cover the whole place in Polaroids? Booby-trap the front door when Enj is coming? The works?”

“Courfeyrac,” Ferre starts, and Chetta braces herself because he only uses Courf’s full name for extra gay declarations. “You realize we still live in the same building. Of course we can still do all that. I’ll just come over every day,” Ferre says, and clearly it’s the most ordinary thing in the world to be so sickeningly domestic with one’s best friend when there’s some painfully obvious mutual crushing going on there.

Courf raises his head and beams at him. “I’m holding you to that.”

Speaking of obvious mutual crushes, in the corner, Enjolras rolls his eyes to the ceiling, and Grantaire elbows him. 

“Get him to come to a meeting,” R says, leaning back so only the two of the legs of his chair are on the ground. “Just one. See how long Napoleon can hold up against _Enjolras_.”

Courf laughs. “Maybe one day. If I’m bored.”

At the same time, Gavroche—the random kid they’d sort of adopted during/after the thing on Bahorel’s birthday, no one knows how he found them—kicks R’s chair legs so he flails and tumbles back. Enjolras snorts.

Courf returns his head to Ferre’s shoulder, and Ferre starts rubbing slow circles on Courf’s back. In the corner, Bahorel is deep in hushed and serious conversation with Feuilly over coffee and a stack of paper. Jehan sits on the windowsill, a book huddled to their chest, and Joly is dancing in his chair to whatever’s playing over the cafe speakers. Bossuet runs his fingers through Chetta’s hair, and she leans into his touch, warmth settling in her chest.

She takes it all in, each one of them in turn, and wonders how in the hell she managed to befriend such an amazing group of people.

She misses a few meetings after that because of filming, but the next time she makes it down, Courf shows up with Ferre on one arm and on the other, some man that looks like a stunned hamster.

“Marius,” Courf says to the hamster man once they settle into the Musain, “this is everyone. Everyone, Marius Pontmercy.”

“Hello,” says Marius Pontmercy, and it’s not exactly a squeak but it might as well be. There’s an empty chair beside Enj but Marius takes one look at his resting bitch face and pulls it over to Courf instead.

Bahorel and Feuilly direct the conversation for the evening to introduce a project they’d been working on together; Enj content to sit back and only speak up with questions. It’s a weird combo, Bahorel the active hater of institution and Feuilly who’s spent upwards of 7 years passively working in one to make ends meet, but they’re both so dead-set on improving schools in particular that it works like a charm. Even if they’re approaching the same issue from opposite directions. 

Marius says nothing the entire time, but his expression gradually shifts from scared to more and more interested in what they have to say. By 11 pm, he’s even smiling a bit. Then—well. Gavroche turns up, and all hell breaks loose. 

Lots of things happen that night. So many that at one point Chetta gives up trying to figure out what’s going on, and she, Boss, and Joly start making a list of events they each observe from their corner. The list looks like this:

October 14th: A Day in History  
1\. We meet Marius the hamster - Musichetta  
2\. Gavroche uses the Café Musain as a hiding spot from the police - Bossuet  
3\. Gavroche and Ep are apparently siblings, which explains a lot - Joly  
4\. Éponine knows Marius the hamster? - Musichetta  
5\. Grantaire and Éponine start whispering in a corner - Bossuet  
6\. #4 and #5 seem related - Bossuet  
7\. Why do I feel like Marius has never had friends before - Musichetta  
8\. We ask Courfeyrac, confirmed Marius has not had friends before - Bossuet  
9\. It’s okay. We’ve adopted him now he’ll never be free - Joly  
10\. Wow R and Éponine are really bonding - Musichetta  
11\. HEY :D :D - COURF  
12\. Jehan is unfazed, stares out window in the chaos - Joly  
13\. Ferre discusses something with Marius, probably Napoleon - Bossuet  
14\. Marius looks scared - Chetta  
15\. #4 and #5 are UNRELATED - R  
16\. That one cop who’s always on our asses shows up, Gavroche flees - Chetta  
17\. Where did Enjolras go? - Bossuet  
18\. Enjolras comes back smiling for some reason - Joly  
19\. Turns out he walked in on Bahorel and Feuilly in the washroom - Joly  
20\. That was a surprise. Anyway, goodnight - Chetta

Chetta carefully folds the list and slides it into Joly’s back pocket. She stands and looks up, past Jehan, and out the window at the street below. It’s near-empty by this point, two figures’ shadows retreating down the sidewalk away from the cafe. She squints at them.

“Is that Enjolras and R?” she asks, and Bossuet and Courfeyrac are at her side in a second, bowling over some chairs, and Marius, to get to her.

“It is,” says Boss, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. He and Courfeyrac high-five.

“Think they’re going home together?” she wonders aloud. 

“God I hope so,” Courf says. “Do you know what it’s like hanging out with Enj these days? I don’t know what he thinks about more now, Grantaire or France. It’s impossible to have a talk without him bringing up one or the other.”

Chetta raises her eyebrows. “What, and getting their shit together will help that? It’ll make it worse, if you ask me.” 

Courfeyrac groans. “Point. Well. At least it’ll be gushing instead of the pining he’s doing now.”

They all turn back to the window, watching the two figures turn at the end of the road.

“Let’s hope for the best, for all our sakes,” Bossuet adds, and Chetta has to agree. 

Later that night, Joly tacks the Day in History list to their fridge, and the next morning, Courf messages the “Way Too Invested In Our Friends’ Love Lives” group chat (Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Jehan) with a photo of Enj in class wearing Grantaire’s favourite hoodie, yes, that green one, and the message ‘he keeps tucking his nose into it’.

Chetta solemnly adds two more things to the list in red pen:

22\. Enjolras crosses the threshold - Musichetta   
23\. Conclusion: Marius the hamster is a catalyst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally the chapter immediately after Jehan, but it felt suspiciously rushed so I wrote the others in between. Tell me what you think of Musichetta, since she's such a blank slate? I hope you liked my interpretation! 
> 
> Thanks again for reading and commenting I love you all


	8. Feuilly

As a part-time janitor, part-time tour guide, and full-time Bahorel caretaker, it’s fair to say that Feuilly sees and hears some shit. You would not believe the things twentysomethings leave under lecture hall seats, nor the probing questions elderly Australian couples ask about Paris’ “city of love” reputation. And Bahorel, as much as Feuilly loves him, kind of goes without saying.

Which is why Feuilly is less shocked than he probably should be at the sight of Enjolras, wearing Marius’ clothes, standing at the door to Bahorel’s flat at one in the morning with a full bag of flour in his hands and more flour in his hair. 

To be fair, Feuilly _answers_ Bahorel’s door at one in the morning in nothing but a pair of Bahorel’s sweatpants, so they’re on equal grounds. He gives Enjolras a once-over and decides on what he’s learned is usually the wisest plan—not to ask. 

“Baz is napping,” he whispers, “but he’ll probably be up soon. Come on in, just be quiet about it.”

“It’s not as weird as it looks,” says Enjolras, shifting awkwardly.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Minutes later, they’re sitting at the kitchen table. Feuilly sips at a coffee while Enjolras chews exhaustedly on an apple. The flour, which apparently was Bahorel’s, has been safely tucked into the pantry. He waits patiently for Enjolras to start talking, so he can gauge what it is exactly he needs at this hour.

He’s caught off guard when the first thing Enjolras says is: “How did you and Bahorel start dating?”

“The night we met Marius, after we gave our presentation, Baz asked me if I wanted to get coffee sometime. Not at the Musain,” he replies. 

“That’s it?” Enjolras asks.

“That’s it.”

Enjolras groans and scrubs his hand over his face. Something flashes in Feuilly’s mind’s eye—it’s a memory of Enjolras doing exactly the same thing, sitting at Feuilly’s own table in his old flat over two years ago while Enjolras asked Feuilly about how he might stop fighting with Grantaire. (Feuilly had told him to apologize and just talk.)

Many things since back then haven’t changed in the slightest, but Enjolras’ complicated feelings towards Grantaire definitely have. Every one of their friends knows that by now, he’s sure. He thinks of the two of them walking home together after even the longest meeting nights and the sweater that Grantaire miraculously hasn’t worn in a month. 

“You like him a lot,” Feuilly says, and it’s not a question. “Grantaire, I mean.” 

“I do,” Enjolras sighs. He levels a glare at his apple that’s equal parts exasperated and fond. “God, I really do.”

Feuilly leans forward in his seat and opens his mouth to reply, but a voice cuts him off.

“Are you letting Enjolras get mushy without me?” it says from behind him. “And—Enj, the hell happened to your hair? Is that the flour I lent you?” 

Feuilly turns around to see Bahorel leaning on the doorframe, tired eyes blinking against the bright light of the kitchen. He smiles. 

Enjolras sighs. “Baking at Courf and Marius’ didn’t go as planned. Grantaire...the stand mixer...yeah, never mind. I just came to give the flour back.” 

“Uh-huh.” Bahorel makes his way up behind Feuilly and begins massaging his shoulders. “Anyway, what about Grantaire?”

Enjolras looks away from them. “It’s nothing. On the off chance that R wants to initiate something, I’m here, is all.”

“Oh my God, you two are hopeless,” Bahorel says, and Feuilly squeezes his hand. “Look, as much as all of us here love R, we gotta ask: when has he ever initiated anything in his life? Dammit Enj, you have to be the one to say something. It has to be you.”

“There’s no way to know if he’s even interested,” Enjolras says.

“Do not start that argument.” 

Enjolras looks at Bahorel with a challenge in his eyes, that look he gets when faced with a difficult question. “It could be me. But why does it have to be? Grantaire is just as capable of as anyone of making his own choices.”

“Look. Okay. R refuses to talk to me or anyone about you or any of this, but I’ve known him for years now and I can tell you he is _terrified_ of taking that kind of a leap of faith.”

“Why would he be? Even if I didn’t...feel the way I do, I would never end our friendship over something like that.”

“It’s not that simple. Right now, since you two have been stuck together like fucking superglue, he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. But also more conflicted. Jesus fucking Christ, can’t you see that he—”

“Baz,” Feuilly warns, cutting him off. 

Bahorel relents. Feuilly lets out the breath he had been holding.

“Look,” Feuilly says. “I don’t know Grantaire as well as I know you. And when have you ever _not_ been the one to initiate something? To lead?”

Enjolras huffs a laugh. “Starting a social revolution and starting a relationship are two very different things, Feuilly.”

“Are they really? Look at the trust in each other that they require. Look at the faith. The power to change people. They’re not all that different after all.”

Enjolras stares at him thoughtfully.

“God I love you,” Bahorel says in a rush, and Feuilly turns scarlet. He kicks Bahorel under the chair.

Enjolras smiles at them both. “I should get going,” he says, checking the time on his phone and scraping his chair back. 

“And I should be getting to my shift,” says Bahorel. “Think about everything, yeah?” 

Enjolras nods.

Bahorel squeezes Feuilly’s shoulder once more before retreating to the bedroom, leaving Feuilly to walk Enjolras to the door. 

Enjolras bends down and puts Marius’ shoes on in silence while Feuilly props the door open with his foot. When he straightens, he sets his hand on Feuilly’s arm and squeezes. 

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, uncharacteristically quiet. 

“My flat’s always open to you,” he replies. “Anytime you need it.”

Enjolras nods. He knows.

Bahorel emerges a few minutes later in his work clothes, arms encircling Feuilly’s waist from behind. “Do you think he’ll do it?” he asks, resting his chin on Feuilly’s shoulder.

“Mmm. Eventually, I’m sure.”

“I hope eventually is soon, because even if R can wait forever I sure can’t.” 

Feuilly laughs. “Yeah, no kidding. Now leave, or you’re going to miss the night bus.”

“Kiss me first. Luck for those two, or something.”

He looks at Bahorel incredulously. “Really?” 

“Maybe just for me.”

Feuilly kisses him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I forgot to mention I kind of really love Bahorel and Feuilly hhhhaaaa  
> Anyway, we're nearing The Moment now. I've already posted more than half of the chapters oh my god where did the time go
> 
> thanks for reading and commenting!!


	9. Gavroche

Of all the streets and train stations, the tourist paths and dodgy bits, the bridges over the river, the churches, hostels, and parks, of all the hundreds of places in all of Paris to catch a favour or waste the day, the Marché Bastille is Gavroche’s favourite.

It’s got everything he needs and better yet, everything he wants. There’s food, there’s clothes and friends and funny people who talk in funny languages. Thursdays and Sundays when it’s open he comes away from the place, backpack stuffed full of free bread and carrots and things that’ll last him and Ep and Azelma a fortnight since Ep never wants to take the Musain café food for themselves. With all the stuff he gets them they can make _sandwiches_. Who was he before sandwiches?

And the best part is he doesn’t have to nick it all no more—the folks down there know him enough. After a solid few months of standing and staring and digging the cents from his pockets for an apple or two they started throwing in free shit. It’s all about building that rapport, you know.

That’s not all he loves about the marché, though. It’s also the best place to hide. More than once he’s dove under a table cover or behind someone’s suitcase or under a stand of lobsters. The reason? Doesn’t matter. Gavroche has plenty of reasons to hide. And this Sunday morning, it’s Grantaire. 

“Keep an eye out for him!” said Éponine to him one day when she was closing up shop and he was heading out and about. “And if ever you see him do anything stupid, you tell me.” 

“Okay,” he said to that, since she just gave him a reason to spy. He likes spying.

Gavroche sees Grantaire coming down the row where all the vegetable people are, and he ducks under the nearest stand (the one with those flat peaches) and lifts the cover just high enough for him to watch and listen. 

Grantaire is walking with Enjolras and squinting at the signs at Michel’s shop. Michel is Gavroche’s corn guy. Good bloke. Always throws in a few extra ears just for him.

“What kind of tomatoes did Joly want? There’s several types here.”

That’s Enjolras. His voice sounds weird when it’s not loud and leader-y, Gavroche thinks.

“He didn’t say, just pick some and go with it. He won’t be able to taste the difference with a cold like that anyway.” That one’s Grantaire, obviously.

“Well what is he planning to do with them? The type of of tomato matters, R, depending if he’s going to eat them plain or make them into a sauce or something, and this stall has too many varieties to choose from, grape, cherry, regular beefsteak—”

“Enj.”

“—can we call him to make sure? Or, ask Chetta or someone—” 

“Enjolras.” Grantaire steps in between Enjolras and all the bloody vegetables so he can’t see the signs. “Calm down about the tomatoes, you sound like Ferre. Joly wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a tomato and actual ketchup, the state he’s in.”

Grantaire grabs a bunch of the big tomatoes without looking at them and drops a fiver in Michel’s hand.

“Sorry. I’m just a bit worried.”

Grantaire softens. “I know. It really is just a cold though, he even said it himself. He’s going to be dancing on the tables again within a week. I’ll even bet with you on it.”

Enjolras snorts. “No, I’d lose.”

Grantaire smiles. “Yeah, it was worth a shot.”

“Thanks, R.”

Grantaire reaches out and for a sec Gavroche thinks he’s going to grab Enjolras’ hand, but he just lets it fall. He goes for his own pocket instead and grabs a piece of paper out of it. “Here. Take half the list so we can head back to Joly’s faster.”

Enjolras nods and Grantaire wanders into the fish-and-other-things row.

Grantaire’s not done anything stupid just yet, so Gavroche decides he’s going to keep watching Enjolras from under the flat peach table. Just to make sure, you know. 

Enjolras stares in the direction Grantaire’s gone for a solid two minutes and Gavroche gets bored. Then he spots the flower person down the end of the row and gets an idea. He crawls out from under the table and thanks the flat peaches for letting him hide. 

“Florence,” he says to Florence the flower person when he gets close enough. “What’ve you got for someone who’s too scared to say how they feel? Cheap and classic, I don’t got much cash on me left. For a friend.” He jerks his head Enjolras’ way.

“Ah,” says Florence, “I was watching those two earlier. Would you believe they’ve been here for three hours already?”

“The speed they go, yeah. Always wandering about, taking forever to get where they got to go. In life, not just the marché.”

“Here.” Florence gives him a simple red flower. “Give your blond friend a tulip, on me. Based on what you say, seems like he needs some help getting to the point.”

Gavroche shrugs. “Okay. Thanks Florence.” He runs back to the the flat peaches and Michel with the tomatoes where Enjolras is still standing, but at least now he’s reading the paper Grantaire gave him.

Gavroche doesn’t give Enjolras time to be shocked at his sudden appearance. “Here you go,” he says, and gives Enjolras the tulip. “Give it to ‘im. To make your life a tad simpler. Don’t tell no one you saw me here.”

He leaves again, but not far. He stays until both the guys are done their food-buying and meet back up. He stays until Grantaire asks about the tulip and Enjolras splutters something that makes no sense, but gives Grantaire the flower anyway. He stays until Grantaire asks if Enjolras knows what tulips _mean_ and Enjolras says no, but he’s sure whatever it is accurate. He stays until Grantaire ducks and smiles and says thanks. 

Then Gavroche learns what time it is from the fact that Miguel and Florence are closing up shop and he runs down into the Bastille métro, back home to his sisters.

“I found Grantaire,” he says to Ep when he gets to their flat, later on.

“Yeah? Gav I know you can handle yourself but I told you to stay away from the bars.” 

“He wasn’t at a bar.”

“Well where was he then?”

“Bastille. With Enjolras.”

“Of course,” Ep sighs.

Gavroche plops his backpack of loot down on the counter. “I don’t get it. If they fancy the pants off each other so much why don’t they do nothing about it unless someone shoves them?”

“Because R is a daft fool who can’t see how much Enjolras likes him.”

Gavroche could, he saw it with his own two eyes.

“Does Grantaire like flowers?” he asks.

Ep gives him a funny look. “I think, yeah. Knows flower meanings and colours and all that. Gav, what’d you do?”

Gavroche grins at her. “Not much. I think you’ll see soon. Let’s make sandwiches.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I??? Completely forgot yesterday was Thursday?? I'm so sorry oh my god forgive me)  
> Anyway, this was my actual favourite chapter to write just because Gav can give such a different perspective from everyone else yknow? I hope it worked! 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and commenting!


	10. Marius

When Marius Pontmercy moved out of his grandfather’s place last year, he had been bright-eyed and looking forward to a fresh start living on the university campus. Marius Pontmercy had been wary of rooming with a complete stranger, but was reassured once he met the kind-hearted Courfeyrac. Marius Pontmercy had been content to have a friend, and imagined he’d spend most of his undergraduate studies with only the one. Marius Pontmercy had been wrong. 

Before he realizes what’s happened or understands what it means, Marius becomes _un ami de l’ABC_.

All the members of this organization/club/freedom enthusiast gathering/meeting of friends (it’s quite unclear) are unique, passionate, and confusing, while Marius feels like he’s none of those things. Quite honestly he doesn’t understand how he gets along with them so well. Over the course of the last school year, he’s even gotten used to them popping in and out of his and Courfeyrac’s flat regularly and with no warning. No—he’s gotten used to them doing anything at all regularly and with no warning.

Which is why Marius isn’t surprised in the slightest when he comes home from a grocery run one day and discovers all of his friends sitting on his and Courfeyrac’s bedroom floor. They all turn when he walks through the door, and he’s left to silently question their presence while helplessly readjusting the baguette in his arms.

“You didn’t have to go and buy all that food,” says Éponine, amused. “We ordered pizza ten minutes ago.”

“Oh,” he says. “Um. Okay. I was just going to put this in the fridge.”

Courfeyrac bounds to his feet, making that face he does when he’s forgotten to tell Marius something important. “I’ll help you,” he says.

Courfeyrac explains it to him while Marius sticks a head of lettuce in the vegetable drawer. “God, Marius, I’m so sorry. I forgot you weren’t on Facebook so I didn’t bother to tell about the annual fuck-all-we’re-done-exams party,” he whispers. 

“Annual? Haven’t you all only known each other two years?” asks Marius. He puts the Corn Flakes on top of the fridge. “And aren’t you graduating?”

“It’s going to be annual. I hope. I mean, I’ve decided it’s going to be as of now. And next year we’ll just change the name to the ‘fuck-all-it’s-summer’ party. We haven’t had much time together as our original group, y’know? After Chetta’s film recruited, like, the entire city. So we just wanna do a thing just for us. Anyway, we were planning on all playing games and such here. Um.”

Marius hums, a bit distracted wondering whether mustard goes in the cupboard or the fridge. “It’s alright. I like that they’re all here,” he says, and Courfeyrac grins at him. 

“You’re the _best_ , Marius,” he says, jumping like an excitable puppy.

Marius smiles and moves to put the mustard in the cupboard, but Courfeyrac takes the bottle from him and puts it in the fridge where it probably belongs. 

The first part of the 1st annual “F*** All We’re Done Exams” party consists of pizza (that Bahorel generously pays for), champagne (of which shockingly Grantaire only drinks a single glass), and the amis glaring intermittently at his _Napoleon Crossing the Alps_ poster. Marius has not yet learned how to stand the amis’ scrutiny of that particular part of him. He tries his best to ignore it. 

When the pizza is gone and the sun gone down, they move on to games and lounging. Feuilly beats everyone at every card game they try. In a shocking twist of fate, Bossuet comes first in a Sorry! tournament. The surprise dream team of Jehan and Musichetta wins charades when Musichetta correctly guesses “The Lion King” just from Jehan lifting a chair over their head.

In the third part, past midnight, Courfeyrac declares to the few who are still awake that their flat is far too small and that they’re going on an adventure. 

Said adventure takes those who remain—himself, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire, and Enjolras—on the metro and all over the city centre; up and down random streets, briefly onto the Champs-Élysées, through Place de la Concorde, and down the walk by the Seine, where Marius loses track of where they are until they finally come to a rest somewhere on the riverbank.

Marius checks his watch at 2:30 and realizes belatedly that the last train would have left an hour ago. Somehow, as he looks at the lights shining off the river and feels the warm wind blowing his hair about, he can’t find it in him to be bothered. He smiles, wide, feeling the atmosphere of the city at night soaking into his bones.

“Is that Marius _smiling_?” asks Grantaire, and they all laugh. Even Marius, despite himself.

“Sit down,” Enjolras laughs, pushing on Grantaire’s shoulder until he’s seated on the concrete, legs dangling towards the river. The rest of them follow suit.

Courfeyrac plops himself down between Marius and Combeferre and slings his arms around both of them. Marius finds himself squeezed in the tiny space between his and Grantaire’s shoulders.

“I’m going to miss this next year,” sighs Courfeyrac.

“Miss what?” asks Combeferre.

“Just this. All of us. Having class with you and Enj. Seeing each other every week. Rooming with Marius here”—Courfeyrac ruffles his hair—“and taking the piss out of his poster. R standing on tables at the café. All of it.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” says Enjolras. “Why would we stop meeting over something like graduation?”

“I know we won’t. I just mean we won’t all live down the hall or across the road from each other. Or even within a few blocks. Hell, we already know Bahorel and Feuilly are moving to the other end of the city. It’ll be—different, and stuff.”

Marius thinks about the sudden and undeniably strange turn his life took when he first shook hands with Courfeyrac in September and realizes he wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

“I don’t want it to be different,” Marius blurts. “This has been the best year of my life.”

It’s silent for a moment, the five of them looking out across the river at the opposite bank, where a couple lies beneath a tree, sound asleep. The breeze kicks up again, and Grantaire has to shift to brush the hair out of his face. He makes a frustrated noise.

“God, Marius, look what you’ve done. You’ve got me sentimental. I’ll start crying,” says Grantaire. Enjolras rolls his eyes. 

Courfeyrac smiles, a quieter one than Marius is used to seeing on him. “Yeah,” he says. “It has been, hasn’t it? That’s what I mean.”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, carefully. “We still have the Musain, and the Corinthe, and anywhere else that will take us. We still have a city, and a world, that needs some help. And we still have each other here. So what does it matter how different it is?”

“I guess so,” Courfeyrac replies. 

Combeferre sighs, pulls Courfeyrac’s head under his arm, and starts giving him a noogie.

“Hey—hey! Ferre, ow!” Courfeyrac wails, but he’s laughing. “Let go!”

Combeferre does, and Courfeyrac rubs his abused scalp. 

“Stop thinking so hard,” Combeferre says, elbowing him. “That’s my job.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re brilliant.” He flicks Combeferre’s nose.

“And I’m right,” Combeferre replies, grabbing his hand away. 

They’re awfully close together, Marius thinks, brows furrowing as he watches. On his other side, Grantaire nudges him. 

“Marius. I have something to show you,” he whispers. Marius turns to him, but he’s not holding anything or pointing. 

“What?” 

“It’s over there, come on.” Grantaire stands and gestures vaguely in the direction of the bridge, so Marius shrugs and follows. Enjolras raises his eyebrows but comes after them.

Grantaire only comes to a stop once he reaches a tree.

“It’s a tree,” Marius says, at a bit of a loss.

“Shh. Marius. Don’t turn around yet. Pretend it’s the most interesting tree you’ve ever seen,” Grantaire says in an unnecessary whisper. He’s looking over Marius’ shoulder at where they came from. 

Marius feels as though he’s missed something important. Again. It’s a feeling he gets quite a lot when he’s around Grantaire. He feels Enjolras’ hand land on his shoulder. 

“It’s Courf and Ferre,” Enjolras explains, before going to stand beside Grantaire and watch with him. “Give them a moment.”

“What's happening?” asks Marius, and, because he can't take the suspense, turns around. 

Courfeyrac is just leaning in to Combeferre, talking in low voices. Marius frowns. “They’re always like this.”

“Not quite. One second,” Grantaire says, squinting and turning his head. “I've known Courfeyrac long enough to know when he's planning something.” 

“No, I've known them years longer than you,” says Enjolras. “It's Combeferre that has a plan here.” 

“Yeah, but when have you been able to read someone's intentions ever?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Enjolras counters. 

“Look at Courf. Look how nervous he is. He only gets nervous when he's thought things through. He’s head over bloody heels and as of tonight has had enough.”

“And Combeferre isn’t? I’ve never seen him so...you know, lovestruck.”

Grantaire scoffs. “ _Lovestruck_? You wouldn't know love if it punched you in the face.” 

“Look who’s talking!” Enjolras replies, turning away from Courfeyrac and Combeferre. 

Marius feels the tension rising like it so often does with those two and decides that the tree he's standing by is, in fact, the most interesting tree in the world. He vaguely wishes he could vanish into the leaves. 

“Oh really? Well, I’m not often on the receiving end.” Grantaire says, looking away.

“Of what, punches?”

“No—Jesus, not punches.”

Enjolras steps forward. “I have a hard time believing that.”

“I guess that makes us both idiots.”

“You know what? I redact what I said. You would _only_ realize someone loved you if they punched you in the face.”

Grantaire laughs derisively. “That’s the kind of person I am, yeah? Dense as all hell.”

“Only sometimes,” Enjolras mutters.

“Ha! The truth is out, at long last. Great to know.”

“Grantaire, I don’t want to have to punch you,” Enjolras announces. 

Grantaire turns on Enjolras. “We’ve come close enough to it before. Wouldn’t hurt to start now.”

Enjolras sets his jaw and stays quiet, and Marius realizes what Enjolras has implied. 

All the confusing pieces and incongruous information about those two—long gazes, near-arguments, shared glares, shared laughter—slide into place before Marius’ eyes into a completed puzzle that _finally_ , after a whole year, makes sense.

“Oh,” he whispers, breathless with realization. “ _Oh_.” A smile spreads across his face.

Enjolras and Grantaire look at him, surprised, as if they’d forgotten he was there. Marius says nothing, but watches Grantaire’s eyes widen and then the look on his face turn from practiced disinterest, to mild surprise, to something else entirely. He turns slowly back to Enjolras. 

“What?” he says to him, voice breaking.

Enjolras is still looking at Marius.

“Sorry,” Marius says. “I'll go away.” 

He turns on his heel to join Courfeyrac, but halfway there he realizes that Courfeyrac is in Combeferre’s lap and kissing the life out of him. 

He stops dead and looks back the other way just as Enjolras puts his hand on Grantaire's waist and steps closer to him. 

Marius, helplessly caught between the metaphorical rock and hard place, looks down at his watch. It's 3 am now, still too early for the metro, and it would be rude to leave his friends. Not that they’d notice he was gone, the way they are. Marius takes a seat in the middle of the walkway and decides it’s his duty to keep watch for drunk and unsuspecting pedestrians or something. He looks back and forth.

On Marius’ left, Courfeyrac hasn't even come up for air yet, and Combeferre seems all too willing to let it happen. 

On his right, Enjolras weaves his free hand into Grantaire's curls and Grantaire’s breath catches. 

On his left, Courfeyrac takes his sweater off and nearly drops it into the river. Combeferre laughs, but it tapers off as his attention is caught by what’s going on by the trees. Courfeyrac follows his gaze.

On his right, Enjolras leans in, Grantaire closes his eyes, and Enjolras kisses him.

It lasts all of five seconds (Marius thinks, he’s not staring) before Courfeyrac can no longer restrain himself and lets out a cheer so loud someone must have heard him a street away.

Grantaire and Enjolras break apart, turning their matching annoyed expressions on Courfeyrac, which become matching sets of raised eyebrows as they notice his position in Combeferre’s lap and Courfeyrac’s shed sweater. Courfeyrac just grins at them and climbs to his feet.

“Knew you two’d get ‘round to it eventually, but I was starting to think I’d have to physically push you or something,” Courfeyrac says, adjusting his shirt.

“Like you’re one to talk,” scoffs Enjolras.

“I...didn’t exactly know,” Courfeyrac says. He ducks his head and smiles. 

Combeferre stands and dusts off his jeans. “Me neither, to be fair,” he shrugs.

“But like, seriously. How weird is that?” laughs Courfeyrac. “It’s like I’ve been saying. Now we have proof that we’re platonic partners in crime for life, Enj, _actual proof_.” 

“I don’t know,” says Combeferre. “I think it was Marius’ doing.” 

Marius’ heart leaps into his throat as they all stare at him. He frowns. “What?” he manages. “I didn’t do anything.”

Grantaire laughs. “Oh yes you did, you just didn’t try to,” he says. 

Courfeyrac throws his arms up in what Marius has come to recognize as his ‘whatever’ gesture and smiles in his direction. 

Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Grantaire, and Combeferre all end up hugging him after that, for various reasons—Courfeyrac to more effectively ruffle his hair, Combeferre as possibly-misguided gratitude, and he’s fairly sure Enjolras only hugs him because the dawn is starting to show its colours and he needs to lean on something or he’ll fall over and go to sleep.

Later, when they’re taking the first morning train back to the flat, when Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras are all passed out on each other in their seats, if Grantaire pulls him into a hug and squeezes him tight, voice breaking over the whispered words _“thank you”_ , Marius doesn’t think the other three need to know. 

He hugs him back, glad to have helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put off publishing this because I was nervous tbh I don't have anything to say other than Hope You Enjoy !!


	11. Joly

Two weeks on, Enjolras and Grantaire/Courfeyrac and Combeferre are more or less old news. Joly is as happy for them (and relieved) as everyone else, of course, if not a little bit mystified about how all their stars uncrossed themselves in the same evening while everyone else was dead asleep. 

What’s strange to him, though, is how little has changed since then. Courf and Ferre have carried on much the same as they always have--the best of friends who constantly touch each other, now with added PDA! Coming soon to a café near you. And Enjolras and R seem to be stuck in that relationship phase where one tiptoes around the boundaries of what’s allowed. Other than a few extra glances, they’ve continued to maintain the respectable few millimeters of distance between them that they had before they started dating. Physics is far from Joly’s strong suit, but seriously, the static electricity created by that contactless proximity must be enough to power several small lightbulbs. 

Then again, contact isn’t proof of affection or anything. And Enjolras has never been much of an overt person in the first place. Joly shrugs off the feeling. He’s just worrying himself again.

Anyway, more importantly, Joly’s almost finished the photoshop masterpiece he’s been working on--it’s a photo that reads _Congratulations???_ and contains the worst possible photos of the two new couples that he can find. Well, of Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre. He’s yet to find a photo of Enjolras where he’s not either avoiding the camera or looking like a posed model. It’s a fact he’s determined to rectify. Eventually. 

He’s up early on lying the couch, chuckling to himself and cropping a photo of Courfeyrac kissing a stuffed fish, when Musichetta bursts out of the bedroom. 

“I have a theory that Marius is a walking aphrodisiac,” she announces proudly. Her hair and eyes are wild, she’s not wearing pants, and her shirt is on backwards. Joly laughs at her and she grins, lobbing her phone at him. 

Joly fumbles the phone into his lap. It’s Bossuet’s, and pinging wildly, open on the “Too Invested In Our Friends Love Lives” Facebook chat. He raises his eyebrows at Courfeyrac’s half a dozen heart emojis and laughs at a selfie of Jehan with Bahorel and Feuilly, all smiling and giving a thumbs-up.

“Should I be asking you to elaborate?” he asks.

“Read it first,” Chetta says, and heads towards the kitchen. “I’m making celebratory pancakes.”

“Again?” 

Chetta just whistles in response. Joly thumbs the phone screen.

 

**08:14 Courf**  
U know how we were joking about marius and jehan and ep dating each other since they’re the only ones still single here 

**08:14 Courf**  
I think marius is off the market, jehan and ep will have 2 date each other

**08:16 Courf**  
[Courf sent an image.]

It’s a picture of Marius sitting at a table in some café, smiling like a dork at the woman across from him. She’s smiling too, twirling her long hair around a finger. 

**08:16 Courf**  
Her name’s Cosette, he wants us all to meet her

**08:42 Boss**  
HOW LONG HAS HE KEPT THIS FROM US

**08:44 Courf**  
Lmao they met this morning in the starbucks line

**08:45 Boss**  
holy shit

**08:50 Courf**  
He’s been lying in his bed texting her ever since  
His phone has NOT STOPPED BUZZING

**08:51 Courf**  
I’ll forgive him tho look he’s so smiley  
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 

**08:51 Courf**  
[Courf sent an image.]

**08:55 Boss**  
4 for u Marius u go Marius

**09:00 Jehan**  
[Jehan sent an image.]

**09:16 Courf**  
I think he wants us to meet her like today

**09:19 Jehan**  
Tell him we’re on our way

Joly grins.

**09:31 Boss**  
It’s Joly, tell him we’re coming too

“Where’d my phone go?” Bossuet asks, stepping out of the bedroom.

Joly looks up to see him looking confused. Joly gives the phone back with a peck on the cheek.

“Chetta,” he calls, and she pokes her head out of the cupboard. “Bring the pancake stuff along. Let’s go over there.”

One of the great benefits of most of them attending the same university is: getting stuck in the same residence building. Which in turn means means: surprising tired friends with pancakes, pranks, and embarrassing photoshop creations that Joly’s planning to print several copies of and tack on the walls of the Musain (once he gets a sufficiently hideous picture of Enjolras, of course). So it’s only _really_ a benefit if you’re Joly. 

“So my aphrodisiac theory,” Chetta starts once they reach the elevator. “For lack of a better word. Think about it. The night we met Marius, Bahorel and Feuilly got together and...something happened with our hopeless Enj and Taire. Then last week, he goes on a mysterious escapade with the two of them, as well as Courf and Ferre, and here they all are now. _Finally_ , Marius meets a girl he likes and who seems to like him too the _one day_ he decides to go somewhere other than the Musain for coffee. The man can’t walk two feet forward without causing spontaneous PDA.” 

Joly hums. “A good hypothesis,” he says, “But we need more proof.” He drops his voice conspiratorially. “What if ‘Cosette’ is just a con artist trying to marry into Marius’ family for the status? Like Hans in Frozen?” 

Bossuet barks a laugh. “What proof can we get? We’re running out of single friends pretty quick here,” he says. 

“Also, Marius has no money for Cosette to marry into. It’d be an awful con job,” Chetta adds, as they step out of the elevator and onto Courf and Marius’ floor.

Enjolras and Grantaire are already coming down the hall towards them, side by side but hands shoved firmly in their own pockets. Joly resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Are you suspecting Cosette of being a con artist too?” Grantaire asks. 

“The contrary,” Chetta replies. “Cosette would be conning him for pocket lint and maybe one half-eaten apple. Not worth it.” 

“Love at first sight has never been truer,” sighs Bossuet.

“Has anyone even seen her yet?” asks Enj, and they all shake their heads.

Joly pushes open the door of the flat without knocking. Combeferre is padding around the kitchen in sweatpants, clearly just woken up. Chetta and Grantaire make a beeline for him and start setting the pancake stuff out on the counter. Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel are already there, staring into the bedroom at what Joly presumes is Marius. Courfeyrac emerges from the room seconds later with his phone, muttering something about blackmail photos.

Bossuet settles himself on the couch and Joly sits beside him, tucks himself under Bossuet’s arm, and watches the pancake festival begin.

Grantaire and Chetta work like a surgeon and her assistant when they cook together. Grantaire knows exactly what Chetta needs while she works whatever magic she has in the mixing bowl. R tosses her a couple eggs and Chetta catches them with barely a glance. He passes the cup measures to her outstretched hand without either of them having to say a word. It’s bordering on scary--Joly would make them both try out for Chopped or something if not for the fact that Enjolras would have a field day about the food wastage that probably happens on those shows.

Combeferre gives the two of them a wide berth, lest he be hit with a stray elbow, but Enjolras isn’t so attentive. He reaches an arm towards Grantaire’s waist, hesitates, and puts it down, watching him work over his shoulder. 

“ _You’re_ not allowed in the kitchen during cooking hours,” Grantaire reprimands, once he spots him standing there. “Remember what happened last time? The flour incident?” 

“That was one time,” Enjolras says. “And an accident.”

Courfeyrac snorts loudly. “Accident my ass,” he says, and Enjolras glares.

“This about the time you showed up at my flat in Marius’ clothes?” asks Bahorel, wandering in. “Because you never did tell us what happened there.” 

Grantaire turns around and folds his arms, laughter in his eyes. “Well,” he begins, “I’ve learned not to trust Enj around electric mixers.”

He launches into a story about a plan to make cookies with Marius, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras, waving his arms to represent various baking implements and imitating their voices in a way that has everyone laughing; and has even summoned Marius out of the room at the sound of his name. Marius is still glued to the phone screen of course, but who can blame him. It’s not every day you fall in love over a tall green tea Frappuccino with extra whip. Joly turns his attention back to Enjolras, who’s gone progressively redder as R explains how he left the kitchen for _one minute_ and when he came back Enjolras was covered in flour from head to toe. 

“Marius played the gallant hero,” Grantaire says, drawing Marius out of his reverie, “and offered poor Enj a change of clothes right away. And thus he arrived at Bahorel’s doorstep like he did. I assume. I wasn’t there.”

“Yeah, that was weird,” Feuilly reflects. “I remember wondering how you managed to get flour in your hair.”

“He made me throw it in to look more convincing,” Courfeyrac says, leaning back with a mischievous grin as Enjolras squawks indignantly.

“Courf!”

“No, it wasn’t your greatest plan,” Combeferre agrees, settling beside Courf and putting an arm around him. “You should have assumed Marius would intervene.”

Bahorel frowns. “Wait, why would you get flour on yourself on purpose?” 

He squints at Enjolras, who’s looking everywhere except at Grantaire.

“Oh my god, were you trying to find an excuse to take your shirt off? Were you _flirting_?”

“Bingo,” Courf whispers, and everyone laughs. 

Enjolras hides his face in his hands and Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “Really, Enj, I know you have the flirting capacity of a teaspoon, but _really_? Marius did one better than you.”

“I’ll show you flirting,” Enjolras says, still as red as his shirt. He grabs a handful of flour from the bag and hurls it straight at Grantaire’s head. 

Everything is still for a second. Enjolras’ hand in midair, Musichetta frozen with the spoon over the mixing bowl. The only thing moving is flour dust settling on Grantaire’s pants. 

“Oh, it’s on,” he says, and grabs his own handful of flour.

Things devolve very quickly from there. They flick flour at each other until Chetta reprimands them for using it, so they move on to splashing each other with water from the sink. Eventually, they give up on the ingredients entirely and Grantaire is tickling Enjolras’ sides while Enjolras tries not to yell, but best of all, they’re both laughing. 

Joly realizes it’s the first time he’s seen them touch in a few weeks and he smiles, pulling out his phone. He snaps a photo and stares at it, then grins. Enjolras’ face is scrunched up and blurry, arms flying up to protect himself from R’s attack. 

He looks absolutely hideous. 

(And, of course, that’s right when Marius opens the door for an unsuspecting Cosette: everyone happy, Chetta fending Courf and Ferre off with her spatula, Grantaire having tackled Enjolras to the floor. Joly’s never been more proud.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! I decided to Change Things at the last minute and it took way longer than I thought it would. Anyway, have this, some harmless fluff, while I decide if I need to change the next chapter too!!
> 
> Thanks again for reading and commenting (and for all your wonderful comments on my last chapter! Yall are the best)


	12. Cosette

Cosette has learned not to be shocked when all of her and Marius’ friends show up to functions at which they weren’t expected, especially when Marius tells her “I invited Courfeyrac”. 

So she quirks an eyebrow at Marius when they all show up to their graduation ceremony, and he’s surprised to see them. In fact, Marius only notices they’re there after the announcer reads ‘Fauchlevent, Euphrasie’ and a roar arises from a particular section of the audience as she walks on stage. Cosette smiles. Honestly, after two years, he should know the scale of Courfeyrac’s sociability by now. 

Cosette accepts her diploma and the dean’s handshake and looks through the bright lights into the audience. Papa is sitting near the front, applauding--and crying?--Marius is hiding a wide smile with his gown-covered hand. Their friends are gathered in a corner all wearing their Sunday best--which for some of them means the cleanest pair of jeans, she thinks fondly, eyeing Bahorel and Éponine. The dean releases her hand and she steps off the stage, rejoining the audience. 

Cosette loves seeing the light shine in her classmates’ eyes when they reach the stage. They’ve worked so hard for so long to reach this moment, after all. But there’s quite a long stretch of time between Favreau, Jeanne and Pontmercy, Marius. Cosette finds her attention wandering.

She glances at Papa, who’s still dabbing at his eyes. When he looks over she gives him a little wave. She shifts her gaze to Marius, who’s getting increasingly nervous the closer he gets to the stage. Then back to their group of friends, all making a show of trying to pay attention but whispering in each others’ ears from time to time. Courfeyrac sits proudly at the front with his phone at the ready. Feuilly is dozing on Jehan’s shoulder. Grantaire is whispering to a rather uncomfortable Enjolras. (She doesn’t blame him. He skipped his own graduation, after all.)

The announcer reads Poirrier, Émile, and her attention is pulled back to the stage. Marius is visibly shaking now, at the very front of the line. She hears whispers from the back corner where (presumably) their friends are waking Feuilly. 

Marius’ name is read, and the back section erupts into cheers once more, startling everyone around them. Cosette laughs. Marius stumbles on his way up the steps, but when he takes the diploma, looks into the audience, and finds her, he beams. She smiles back.

What a journey they’ve had from that morning at Starbucks to this very moment. 

Papa is the first one to find her and Marius after the ceremony is over. His eyes are red, but the smile on his face is wider than she’s ever seen it. She wraps him in a hug. 

“Thank you,” she whispers into his shoulder. It’s thanks for putting her through university, for being there for her always, for making sure she lives her best life. He only hugs her tighter. 

She hears Marius shift awkwardly behind her. They’ve only met a couple times. 

“Marius,” Papa says politely. 

“Monsieur,” he says, quiet as a mouse, and Cosette takes his hand in reassurance. She tells herself it’s _not funny at all_ how intimidated Marius is by her father.

“Cosette!” someone calls, and she turns around just as Bahorel barrels into her and she’s squished into a shoulder for the second time in two minutes. 

Courfeyrac does the same to Marius, with a murmured “I’m so proud.”

It's a small circle of smiles and pats on the back with her and Marius at the centre. Papa had backed away some time ago to observe from a distance, smile still playing on his face. 

“So how does freedom feel?” asks Grantaire, slinging an arm around her. 

“Brilliant,” she replies, since it's the only word apt enough to describe the feeling of both being surrounded by the people she loves and knowing that she’ll never again have to write another essay. 

“Congratulations,” Enjolras says, to her, then to Marius. Marius hugs him. It’s bold for him; not something Marius does often. 

Enjolras still seems uncomfortable, a little, staring at a distant point somewhere over Marius’ shoulder. Grantaire’s brows furrow. He sees the same thing. 

Cosette elbows him. He glances down, startled. “Enjolras doesn’t have to stay if he doesn’t want to,” she whispers. “It means a lot to us that you all came in the first place.”

Grantaire frowns at her in confusion and then laughs. “No, no, it’s not that. He called at eight in the morning and threatened murder unless I came today.” He flicks Cosette’s braid over her shoulder. “He wouldn’t have missed it. None of us would.”

“It’s just graduation,” she says. 

“Yeah, but it’s also the beginning of Marius’ actual adulthood and everyone had to see it to believe it.” 

Cosette laughs at that. She turns back to where Enjolras is giving Marius a warm smile and Marius’ eyes are sparkling so bright they put the stars to shame. He turns them on her and she tucks the moment away in a pocket of her favourite memories. 

Later, after they’ve split off into groups, after she wipes the happy tears from her face, and after Papa pulls a terrified Marius aside to talk to him in private, Cosette finds herself wandering aimlessly around the venue with Jehan and Musichetta. They’re in the middle of a talk about the future--freelance work of any kind is hard, they all agree, but it’s what they were meant to do--when they round a corner and Jehan suddenly ducks and presses themself against the wall. They peer around the corner. 

“What?” Chetta whispers, and cranes her neck over Jehan’s. Cosette does the same.

Enjolras has Grantaire against the opposite wall and is kissing him within an inch of his life. Cosette quickly draws her head back. 

“We should go,” Chetta whispers, and they start to walk back the way they came. 

“Wait,” Grantaire says, a little breathless, and they all freeze. “Enjolras, wait. Look at me. What’s gotten into you?” 

“Sorry,” says Enjolras, breathing heavily. “I--sorry.” 

“No, I’m fine. Just talk to me.”

Cosette knows she shouldn’t eavesdrop. She turns away, shares a glance with Jehan. Her curiosity and concern get the better of her. 

“I like you a lot,” Enjolras says, like some kind of introduction. 

Grantaire huffs a laugh. “I should hope so. It’s been over a year,” he says. Then, more quietly: “I love you too.”

“I was thinking a lot. About how much I like you. How I always look forward to it when you come over and I hate when you have to leave.” It’s strange to hear Enjolras so shy. 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, just waits for Enjolras to keep talking. 

“Combeferre told me a few weeks ago he’d like to move out,” he continues. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Grantaire says, and there’s a shuffling of fabrics as Grantaire hugs him. “To live with Courf?” 

“Yes. It’s alright. I knew it was coming eventually. I was just wondering, since I know your lease is up soon, and I think I’d--we--do well,” Enjolras trails off.

Grantaire is silent for a while. “Is this what’s been bothering you all week?” he asks. A pause. Grantaire speaks again. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

Enjolras sighs audibly. There’s a grunt and more shuffling of fabrics. Cosette backs away, and Musichetta and Jehan do the same. This is not their moment to witness. 

But as they start walking, Cosette can’t help but turn around once more. The two of them have their noses pressed together, Grantaire laughing and Enjolras beaming like nothing in the world could stop him. 

She walks forward. It seems like there are bright futures ahead for all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ridiculously long delay, everyone! I didn't like my original Cosette chapter so I ended up rewriting it, which is why it took so long. I apologize for that. 
> 
> Anyway I'm back and excited to get the last two chapters up (can you guess who they are? probably) and I hope you enjoy reading :)


	13. Courfeyrac

When Gavroche enters his first year of university, Enjolras finally, _finally_ retires as the leader of Les Amis de l’ABC.

It was kind of a long time coming. Enjolras has been getting stupidly busy between work, and meeting planning, and all the people who want him to come on their shows or into their classrooms and talk for an hour about the State Of Things. Enjolras even had to move their meetings from once a week to once a month. It was the most dramatic change to his life since Grantaire. Anyway, Enjolras decides to pass the title on to a now slightly-more-mature Gavroche. 

It feels surreal as hell, the night it officially happens, Courf and Enj hovering over Grantaire’s shoulder as they watch him change the word beside Enjolras’ name on their website from ‘Head’ to ‘Co-Founder’. It’s just the three of them on the upper floor of the café, in the same corner where he, Enj, and Ferre came up with the whole idea however many years ago. 

Grantaire hits the enter key with an air of finality, and Enj lets out a breath. Grantaire stands and rubs circles into his back. If Courf looks over now and sees Enj crying, he won’t be able to deal with it. So instead he makes the smart decision (probably) and flees for the safety of the main floor. 

He really wishes Ferre was here. He would be able to do that thing where he says, like, less than a sentence, and it feels like all the comforting words they need. Curse Ferre and his terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad work shifts.

For now, he tells himself it’ll be alright. Gavroche is basically Enj, Ferre, and himself all lumped into a single fiery human. He’s bold and passionate, but also smart and strategic, and he knows how to charm his way into a group of friends within the first week. (That’s the Courfeyrac part, if he does say so himself). Gav will do the ABC, and more importantly Combeferre and Enjolras, proud.

He makes small talk with Azelma at the front and sips a coffee hot enough that the steam hides his face (and the tears that definitely don’t exist). He’s got work pretty early in the morning, and really should not be drinking something that’ll keep him up until four, but it’s a special occasion. It’s the passing of the torch, blah blah, the young rising to take the place of the old.

Azelma snorts when he says that. “You’re not dead yet. You’re not even thirty,” she says. Then she pauses. “Are you?” 

Courf rolls his eyes. “No. but Feuilly’s 35 this month,” he points out. “He’s practically your grandfather.”

“What does that make you, my weird uncle?” 

Courf scrunches his nose. “I guess it does, yeah.”

Someone thumps down the steps from the upper floor. “The deed is all done,” says Bossuet. “Gav has our blessing. Hope he knows what manner of madness he’s in for.” 

“He doesn’t,” Courf says, at the same time as Azelma. 

“But he’ll be fine. I believe in him,” says Jehan, sneaking up behind him. “Where’s Combeferre?” 

“Working late, as usual,” Courf says. “He promises he’ll go to Gav’s first meeting, though.”

“I don’t remember the last time you were all here at once,” says Azelma. “God, I lied. You are getting old.”

Courf nods, finishes the coffee he’ll probably regret later, and scrapes his chair back. “Well, it’s late. This old man needs his sleep. Gonna say goodnight to Enj and R.”

“R went out back, I think,” says Bossuet, and Courf groans. 

See, ‘out back’ is actually the area on the side of the Musain, and they call it that because it’s a shady-as-fuck narrow alleyway that always smells weird and, at night, is only lit by the dim yellow light that comes out of the one window at the back of the second floor of the café. Jehan and R love it back here. Ferre has never been in this alley in his life. 

Grantaire isn’t here, either, so Courf concludes that either he dissolved into the night, or he’s spectating on Enj’s pep-talk for Gavroche, and Bossuet just didn’t notice. He’s about to go back inside, when a shadow moves across the window light and he hears it being pushed open. 

“--and this is how I used to disrupt the meetings, I’d just open the window and yell at the alley, until Enj had to stop talking to tell me to shut up--oh! hey, Courf.” 

It’s a vague shadowy outline of Grantaire, poking his head out the window and staring down at him.

“What are you even teaching him?” Courf yells up at the Grantaire shadow.

Enjolras leans out the window beside him. “How to deal with an annoying arse at the meeting, 101,” he says. “It’s a very important lesson.” 

Courf laughs. “Not one you learned, clearly! Look where you ended up.”

“Circumstance,” says Grantaire, with a flap of his hand. 

Enjolras retreats back into the cafe. Courf hears him tell Gav he’s free to go, then he pops his head back out. 

“You heading home?” Grantaire asks.

“Yeah, early morning.” 

“Tell Ferre I say hi.”

“I will.” Courf kicks the pavement. “He misses you guys a lot.” 

“Well, also tell him he’s an old man and you two should come visit,” Enj says, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah.” He grins, and a memory hits him of their post-exam parties and spontaneous gatherings that happened at the old infamous Courfmercy flat. “Yeah, we’ll do that. Really soon.”

“Enjolras misses him too,” Grantaire says, and Enj lightly punches his arm. Then, in a stage whisper: “Don’t tell him, but I think he loves Combeferre more than me!” 

“I don’t love anyone more than you, you arse.” He hits Grantaire’s arm again. Then he realizes what he said.

Grantaire makes a weird choked noise, and he hauls Enjolras back inside the café, slamming the window shut again behind him.

Courf shakes his head at the retreating shadows. He’d like to say the two of them never changed, because in a way they really haven’t, but if you asked Courf ten years ago if Enjolras would so easily admit to loving someone, he’d probably have laughed at you. Huh. Interesting, that.

His mobile rings, startling him out of his reverie. He picks it up curiously.

“Hi, love.” It’s Ferre, sounding oddly out of breath. “I managed to get out a bit early tonight. Any chance you’re all still at the Musain? I’d like to catch up for a bit.”

“Hey. Yeah, I’m still here. So’s everyone else, I think. Gav just got done getting his pep talk.”

Ferre breathes a sigh of relief. “I don’t want to make them wait if they have to leave, but...I think I can be there in 15?”

“I’ll tell them.” He glances up at the window, and smiles at what he sees.

“What?” says Ferre. 

“What?” says Courf. 

“You’re smiling.”

Courf smiles wider. “It’s nothing.”

He’s just gazing at Enj and R’s silhouettes, looking like more like the form of one person than of two. Just a couple of gently swaying shadows framed by the Café Musain’s rear window.

“Don’t rush, yeah? They’ll be here a while,” he says. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (dramatic whisper) TITLE DROP! 
> 
> Anyway, this is what I'm calling the last chapter, as the following one is more like an epilogue than anything. Plus, I wanted to bookend this fic with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading this far. It really means a lot to me. I know this kind of like a really long drabble, but I've never fully finished a multi-chapter fic before so I'm happy it's been so well received! 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading and commenting and I hope you enjoy the final chapter!


	14. Jean Valjean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Epilogue._

Sacre-Coeur is a ghostly presence against the early morning sky—chilly, in shadow, without the din of tourists that accompanies it during the daytime. This is Valjean’s favourite route for the nights when he can’t sleep; when he can’t stop thinking about Cosette, what she might be doing now, where she and Marius are and when they’ll be coming home to visit him.

The living world is silent, and right here—on the cobblestones, below the proud church, the sky alight but the sun not yet risen—he feels God’s earthly presence the strongest. Like a ritual, he always stops before the steps, leans heavy on his cane, and bows his head, sending a prayer to the Lord to thank Him for blessing him with his daughter and his son, and later his granddaughter, the three people he loves most in all the world.

He’s a little startled, this particular morning in late June, when he passes in front of the church and hears he’s not alone. The gentle strums of a guitar wafts down from above, and he turns to look.

There are two men on the steps high above the walkway. One reclines, plucking away at the instrument in his arms. He stares at the other man, asleep upon the pavement. The smallest of gusts blows a tuft of hair into the sleeping one’s face. The other pauses his playing; reaches a gentle hand out to brush it back behind his ear.

They seem familiar, from afar, but Valjean’s eyesight is not what it once was. He begins to climb the steps towards them, curiously. It’s an arduous task, and his tired knees creak in indignation. 

Then the man with the guitar looks up, and his aching knees are forgotten. Valjean remembers the face. What was his name? Ah—Grantaire. The man asleep is Enjolras. He sees them in his mind’s eye at Cosette and Marius’ wedding, dancing circles around the room and laughing heartily. It’s been many years since then. He doesn’t recall the thin stripes of greying hair on Grantaire’s temples, nor the crow’s-feet wrinkles by his eyes. 

Valjean watches Grantaire’s expression shift and widen in recognition as he draws nearer. He smiles.

“Hello, my friend,” he says. “It’s been a long time.” 

Grantaire gently sets aside his guitar and stands. He clasps Valjean’s hand warmly. “Far too long. It’s good to see you.” He turns to the sleeping Enjolras. “D’you want me to wake him up? He’d be glad.”

“No, it’s quite alright. Let him rest.” He knows Enjolras is a busy man. Cosette talks about her work with him when she comes to visit. (‘Twenty years on and he never misses a day of work,’ she had said. ‘I don’t think he sleeps.’) 

“What brings you out here so late at night?” Grantaire asks, drawing him out of thought. 

Valjean looks at his wristwatch—it’s five in the morning. The sky to the east is already ablaze with colour.

“I just woke up,” says Valjean. “And I like walking by the basilica. Brings me peace.”

Grantaire chuckles. “Oh, peace. What I always wanted to avoid.” He turns fond eyes on Enjolras. “But look at me now.” 

Valjean smiles. “It finds you in the end, doesn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, nodding. “That bastard.”

Valjean laughs. “What brings you both out so...late, anyway?”

“Anniversary tradition.” Grantaire waves the back of his left hand at him. The gold band gleams in the early light.

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “A tradition?”

“The night before our wedding, Enj couldn’t sleep. So I didn’t sleep either. Eventually we both gave up and went and watched the sunrise instead. I made a joke about not sleeping and doing it again, and, well. Eleven years later.” Grantaire gestures vaguely at the sky.

“Congratulations.”

Grantaire smiles at him, and it reaches his eyes. Valjean recalls the first time he met him, at the Commissariat, when they were all just schoolboys and he had been fighting for the release of Enjolras and his friends. He’d smiled just like this when Valjean consented to his requests. The crow’s-feet around his eyes don’t seem as unfamiliar, now. 

Enjolras shivers and makes a noise. Grantaire unbuttons his coat and lays it over him without a second thought. His hands linger for a moment, smoothing the fabric over Enjolras’ shoulder.

“He’s a great man,” Valjean says. “Or so Cosette tells me.”

“Take her word over mine any day,” replies Grantaire, chuckling. “But she’s right. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

“You’re more special than you realize.” 

Grantaire looks at him. He doesn’t know how to reply to that.

The first ray of sunshine pierces across from the east and shines in Valjean’s eyes. Grantaire turns to watch as well, and they lapse into silence. Some sights speak louder than words.

Soon, the first of Montmartre’s artists will begin to walk the streets, and Marius will be calling to ask when they may visit. He longs to see Cosette’s smiling face once more and hold his granddaughter in his arms. Valjean says his farewell to Grantaire, and as if given strength just by the thought of his family, descends the grand stairs with a spring in his step. He turns around when he reaches the bottom; looks back. 

Enjolras is awake, sitting up, and has just noticed Grantaire’s coat around him. Grantaire is already crouched by his side. He points at the sunrise and begins to stand, but Enjolras catches his arm; says something that makes Grantaire smile and press a tender kiss to his forehead. Enjolras pulls the coat closer and kisses the inside of Grantaire’s wrist. 

Valjean keeps walking, but his heart soars—in all the years he’s lived, the good and bad he’s done, through all the things he’s seen, he's found there is nothing more humbling than to bear witness to true love.

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. It's complete. I can't believe this.
> 
> Thank you, thank you so much for getting all the way to the end and reading this. This has reawakened my love for writing fic, as I'd hoped it would, and I'm blown away by all of the positive feedback. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, and for the people who have been following it from the first couple chapters (I know who you are!) thank you for coming on this little journey with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if this has been done to death already, I haven’t had the chance to read all that much fic in this fandom. But these characters and E/R have been burning my soul for the past few months and I just needed to write them a bit.
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it! Either by commenting here or on my Tumblr @grantairelibere (where I am more often). Thank you so much for reading!


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